There was sweat in places I didn’t know I could sweat. I was confused why this instance of all instances was making me damp behind the knees, between my toes. As I knocked on Jenny’s door, three times hard, I reminded myself that she was just some lady with some kid. Then she opened the door and I wanted to take her hand and invite her to come with me whenever I ran away to Myrtle Beach.
2
I’D LIVED in the same house my whole life. It was small, in a neighborhood with some crime, rarely bad crime. Only four or five people a year got stabbed, a shooting here and there, rarely fatal. The worst that usually happened was some chubby boy getting kicked in the ribs and mugged, a rock thrown through a window, bikes swiped off the front lawn, walls tagged, sidewalks crowded with empty cans and chip bags, whatever shit happened when people were drunk, or high, or bored, or all three.
Dad had often been heard arguing with people who said the neighborhood was shit. He’d often repeat himself:
“It’s called Character Building. If I didn’t get knocked around every now and then, I wouldn’t be who I am today.”
“It’s called Natural Selection. If you’re dumb enough to leave your shit out, it should be stolen.”
“It’s called Being Proactive. If you don’t like trash, bend down and pick it up.”
“It’s called Shutting the Fuck Up. If you don’t like it, move somewhere else.”
I’d never hop onto his side of an argument, holler and spit in people’s faces, but I didn’t mind where we lived either.
* * *
—
BACK AT HOME, Billy had a surprise waiting for me in bed.
“Where the fuck did you get a cat?”
A fat orange tabby lay on my pillow, licking itself. His eyes were large and green and watched my every move. I went to the other side of the room to hang up my coat, and his eyes followed me the entire time. I immediately knew we were not going to get along.
“Super-cute, right?” Billy flopped on the bed and started rubbing the cat’s belly. He stretched and purred and, I swear, he smiled. “I feel like if he was a human he’d be chubby and his clothes would be stylish, redneck chic. A NASCAR dad that also reads The New Yorker. A lover, not a fighter.”
The cat’s purring grew louder and I wasn’t surprised—four legs, two legs, whatever, you’d have to be crazy not to love Billy Bradley.
When I first brought him home to meet Mom, he took his shoes off at the front door and ate every scrap off his plate, told Mom it was the best meal he’d had in a while, maybe ever. As he got up to go to the bathroom, she whispered loudly in my ear, “Hold on to this one.” He finished two more helpings and, before he left, kissed me on the cheek, and gave Mom a good long hug, told her he’d definitely be back. The second the front door clicked behind him, Mom was gushing. “Lovely! An absolutely lovely boy!” She adored everything about him, especially his Americanness. His very name made her want to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” A year later, when I told Mom that I was pregnant, she cried tears of joy—her daughter would get to stay under her roof and she’d have an American husband and a true American baby.
“The Halperns’ little girl found him next to a dumpster behind the 7-Eleven. She wanted to keep him. Her parents wouldn’t let her, said he could have fleas.” Billy worked for his uncle’s landscaping company. They had a couple city contracts, but made most of their money mowing large lawns in rich neighborhoods.
“Lucky us.”
Billy frowned, sat up quickly. “Wait, are you mad? Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I said. “I just—”
“Look, you won’t even have to do any of the hard stuff.” He grabbed my wrists and kissed the back of my hands. “I’ll feed him, water him, change his litter box, you can just pet him and love him, read to him, maybe. I bet he would love it if you just sat with him in your lap and read from your books. I thought it could be a nice way to get ready. Plus, you know Billy Jr. is going to love having a furry friend around.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my neck, pressed more kisses there. “Please don’t be mad.”
It took me a second, but I hugged him back.
“I’m not mad.” I kissed him once, on the cheek, pulled away, and looked at the cat. “I guess he is kind of cute. Does he have a name?”
“We’ll come up with something. We can ask Mom.” He pulled me back into his arms. “Why don’t you shower and change and come downstairs for dinner when you’re comfortable?”
One more kiss and he was out the door. I reached over to pet the cat and he hissed at me, ears flattened and eyes wild.
* * *
—
BILLY AND I wouldn’t have met if his parents hadn’t celebrated their twentieth anniversary in Costa Rica.
I was a junior with a bad haircut who ditched classes to smoke weed and nap in my car, had a few friends out of social necessity, sat quietly at corner tables in the cafeteria and read, repeating platitudes in my head like “Life is only just beginning,” trying to make them ring true. Billy was an honors student, the captain of the baseball team and the Mathletes, sat at a table in the center of the cafeteria and entertained his overpacked table—his laugh could be heard even once I’d dumped my tray and went outside.
But Billy’s mom wanted to go zip-lining and see a real live toucan, lie nude on beaches and drink colorful fruity drinks. Billy’s dad wanted what Billy’s mom wanted.
The trip was perfect until, on their last night, it began pouring rain and a sheep escaped from its pen. Excited by its newfound freedom, it ran into the street where Billy’s parents were driving, doing their best to imprint every detail of the Costa Rican landscape into their minds. Billy’s dad was a veterinarian; he swerved hard to avoid hitting the sheep, and their car spun on the slick road and off a cliff. The doctors said they both died instantly, painlessly.
Dad had died a week earlier. Soon, Billy was sitting across from me in a circle of other people who were dealing with Grief and Loss of a Loved One. The meetings were held in the local church every Wednesday at 5:00 p.m. The cookies were stale. Fortunately, the coffee was strong. We sat and listened as people wept and worried that they’d never be the same. Billy and I were the only two who never cried, although he did look sad, different, unlike the large, laughing boy whose warm presence I’d taken for granted.
One day after the meeting, he asked me if I liked ice cream. I said not really, but that I would go with him.
We sat in silence as he ate three separate cones. I was about to tell him that he could’ve saved money and just gotten a triple scoop when he blurted out that he felt bad that he didn’t feel more bad.